I don't even remember it happening—AI taking over the writing field. We live in a society where AI does your homework, drafts your mail, and acts as your free therapist, storyteller, and even as your companion. As a writer, I deeply believed that AI could never take over the writing field, but I've already come across several posts on social media about how AI is better at crafting flawless prose.

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AI can do literally anything, but it just cannot do what I'm doing right now. It can craft a poem or a short story within a fraction of a second with some prompts, but it can never do what a writer does. It just cannot bleed the way a poet bleeds in metaphors, or craft a piece of literature that feels like driving a stake through your beating heart.

Assumptions are made that, in a few years’ time, AI will take over every possible field, but I stand by the fact that it can never write a verse that stirs emotions within humans. People often say that words can fix anything—then how can they ask a machine about their feelings when it has never felt anger, sorrow, joy, or disgust?

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The Imperfect Art of Feeling

The truth is writing was never supposed to be perfect. It was supposed to feel, to ache, and to tremble.

AI can write essays and stories that sound divine, but it doesn't know the warmth of words being poured from the soul of a writer. It will never know how heartbreak feels, or the sensation of tears streaming down our cheeks while reading a devastating novel.

That's what makes us human—to feel. I've been striking out and erasing the pages I've written to make my story perfect. I could have done that overnight with mere prompts, but that's not where my happiness lies.

Happiness is holding my pen between my fingers and moving it along the beat of my heart, spilling everything out. It was never perfect the first time, but as time passed, I realized that perfection was a myth.

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The Limits of Artificial Artistry

New technologies have always challenged creative fields. Printing presses made books accessible to everyone, but they never replaced writers. Photography captured visual art, but it never replaced artists.

Similarly, AI can replicate human art, but it can never replace us. AI is limited; it can just rearrange and combine words which have been in data but can never feel them. Human creativity remains irreplaceable through generations.

For example: A simple prompt like "Write me a sad poem" can resemble sadness, but the feelings can never originate from within.

Machines lack contextual understanding; they read through codes and bits and not with soul and mind.

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AI will keep revolving—maybe one day, it can write with terrifying precision, but writing is not about precision and perfect grammar, it's about expressing a lived experience.

Solely relying on AI can increase the risks of flattening creativity because people have to realize that it can be your friend as well as a foe.

The major concern is, AI can drive people to choose speed and efficiency over depth and feeling.

The Fear No One Talks About

I don't envy the machines for doing it faster or better. But I fear that people will stand by and watch as AI takes over everything that precisely belonged to humans. I fear that humans will forget to feel within a span of time; I fear that humans will forget to be human and start mimicking machines—which is nothing but numb.

“The more we let ourselves be governed by intellect, the less we will be governed by the heart.”

-C.S. Lewis

AI was supposed to make things easier and more reliable, not take over what only we have. When ChatGPT was introduced in 2022 and became accessible to everyone, people thought it was cool to appreciate the reflection of art it creates rather than the art itself. I fear that humans will choose polished phrases over flawed feelings—I fear that my way of living might not have a place in this mechanical world.

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Unwritten by Code

Maybe AI can take over everything—it can mimic my words, my rhyme, even my spirit—but it’ll never know what it feels like to be sixteen, staring at a blinking cursor, dreading that the words might not flow, or the feeling of reading my favorite poem in the middle of the night and feeling a wave of something indescribable.

Perhaps what makes human writing extraordinary is its imperfections. Mistakes, rewriting, strike outs—they are not flaws, but a reminder of who we are.